Title: To Hold and To Have
Author:Ruby Nye
Author's email: Shmi@bantha.org
Pairing : Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17. PWP, in fact.
Warnings: Bondage, bossy halfling.
Summary: Frodo reassures Sam.
Author's note: Inspired by art done by Widgeon. I love being a member of
such a talented fandom!



"Sam, it's just a cracked rib." Frodo bent sideways, ignoring the twinge
in his side, to demonstrate that the injury was negligible. "I would have
been hurt far worse if you hadn't caught me."

"Even so, Mr. Frodo." Sam's eyes followed Frodo's stretches, but when
Frodo looked at him straight on those eyes stayed downcast. "Even so, sir,
I hurt you. I can't, well, how can I put a hand on you, after I hurt you?"

Frodo sighed. How many times were they going to go round on this? "You
didn't mean to hurt me, Sam!" He laid a hand on Sam's arm; Sam flinched,
and Frodo felt the sturdy muscles move beneath the golden skin, and
frustration and arousal made him ruthless enough to press his hand down
firmly instead of lifting it. "I'm not angry with you, Sam, so why can't
you forgive yourself?"

Sam just shook his head, still looking down. Frodo wanted to grab him by
the ears, shake him, kiss him. "When will we have another night like
this?" Sam's Gaffer had gone to visit Daisy, and between May, who had an
affair going of her own, and Marigold, who thought Sam's friendship with
his Master romantic rather than improper, Sam was able to spend the night
up at Bag End. They'd planned it for weeks, since the Gaffer had first
spoken of his trip, but now Sam was skittish about going to Frodo's bed,
all because of a silly accident. Frodo stroked Sam's arm, firm and rounded
beneath his hand, and looked at Sam's full lower lip and long downcast
lashes, his fair hair that made sunlight of the lamplight, as Sam
considered that question for a long moment, then, maddeningly, shook his
head.

Frodo blew out a long breath. He was not going to go round on this once
more, and no amount of straightforward logic could dent what Sam saw as
plain hobbit-sense, nor soothe Sam's upset at having hurt Frodo, however
accidentally. However, there were always other ways around. Frodo tore his
eyes from his beautiful, dejected Sam, and looked around the kitchen,
searching for inspiration. A few freshly washed towels hung over the
hearth; absently, Frodo noticed how they looked like white scarves, and
then he blinked, and then he laughed. "Sam, are you really so afraid of
hurting me?" he asked, pitching his voice just so; Sam opened his mouth,
saying, "Sir, after what happened---", which was as far as he got, because
he looked up, and Frodo looked back, just the right way.

Sam often told Frodo how amazing his eyes were. Frodo found them rather
odd, himself; he rather thought blue was a color for plants, flowers and
dyestuffs and so on, not for hobbits, and he loved the warm brown of Sam's
eyes, which put him in mind of soft velvet or fertile earth or good
tea. Still, if Sam found Frodo's eyes so enticing, well, he might as well
use them. Holding Sam's eyes with his own, Frodo smiled slowly. "I have an
idea, Sam," he said. "Do you trust me?"

Wordlessly, Sam nodded. Still looking into his wide brown eyes, not giving
him a chance to think again, Frodo got up slowly, wrapping both his hands
round Sam's wrist to draw him along. "Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, but Frodo
pulled with his gaze, and Sam came, down the hall and to Frodo's bedroom
and into his arms. "Do you trust me?" Frodo asked again, as he undid the
square wooden buttons of Sam's shirt, and Sam murmured, soft as the
well-worn cloth, close enough to stir Frodo's curls with his breath, "Sir,
I trust you."

"But you don't trust yourself." Frodo slid down Sam's front as slowly as
his knees would let him; they didn't appreciate it, and complained with
little sparking pains when Frodo landed on them, but the rapt look on
Sam's face and the tremors of his body were worth it. "I trust you,
Sam," he said, undoing the buckles on Sam's breeches; Sam's lips parted in
surprise, his gaze unwavering. "My sturdy, sunny gardener lad. I always
trust you. I know you won't hurt me. I'm going to show you." Enough
buttons were undone that Frodo could get the breeches off; now he dared to
look away from Sam's face, to smile at what lay directly before him, as
Sam swallowed hard. "Mmmm, my Sam," he said, leaning forward for a fond
lick that caused a gasp above him. "I'm going to show you," Frodo
repeated, and licked slowly up the other side of the flesh hardening fully
beneath his tongue, and listened to Sam's low moan.

Then Frodo got to his feet, and, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders, sat
him down on the bed. "Wait for me," he breathed over Sam's lips before he
kissed them; Sam parted those lips, leaning forward into the kiss, but
didn't raise his arms, though Frodo could feel them trembling at his
sides. _Perfect_, Frodo thought, and would have smiled if he
could. Instead he pulled back, and Sam looked up at him with those wide
beautiful brown eyes, and it was all Frodo could do to turn away and
rummage in a drawer for what he needed. 

He turned back to Sam with a soft white scarf in his hand, as he might
wear tucked round his throat when dressing up for some banquet. "Lie down,
Sam," Frodo ordered, and Sam obediently did so, quivering. "All right, my
dear. Since you're afraid of what your strong hands might do, let's leave
them out for tonight." Frodo straddled Sam as he spoke, and picked up one
of Sam's hands in both of his own, and kissed the palm and the fingers,
and laid it above Sam's head on the pillow; he did the same with the
other, and ran his hands down Sam's outstretched arms to feel Sam shudder
and gasp and buck beneath him. "I'm going to bind your hands, Sam," Frodo
murmured, bending over him so that their noses nearly touched. Sam blinked
his round eyes, his tender lips parting further; he drew in a breath and
nodded, and Frodo smiled and kissed that nose, kissed those lips again,
before looking up at his task.

What would be most comfortable? A good square knot, not too tight. Frodo
realized that it would take another scarf to bind Sam to the headboard,
but he was not very inclined to get up off his Sam, who lay nestled
between his knees, warm and solid and trembling. So Frodo kissed the bound
hands, kissed his way down one of Sam's arms to his hair and brow and
lips, and sat back again, settling onto Sam's hips and tucking his rump
against a prick already straining-hard. "Can you keep your hands there,
Sam?" he asked, and Sam nodded again, his brown eyes darkening
beautifully; Frodo leaned forward, just looking at him, wondering who was
caught in whose eyes. "Yes, sir," Sam murmured, low and huskily. 

"No matter what I do?" Frodo dragged his hands up Sam's sides, pressing
the fingertips in to keep the caress from tickling, and Sam's eyes
fluttered shut as he pressed his head back into the pillow and moaned. "No
matter what? Can you do that for me, Sam?"

"Sir, oh, Mr. Frodo, sir." Sam shuddered all over, as Frodo ran those
hands up over his chest, over his nipples and collarbones and throat to
cup his face, and all the while Sam's hands stayed where they were, as if
bolted to the pillow. Frodo stroked Sam's cheeks with his thumbs and
kissed him, warm and deep, then sat back. He was still dressed, after all,
and without Sam's hands to help him get his clothes off. 

The vest was no matter, of course, and the shirt came off quickly enough,
but Frodo realized that he couldn't quite get out of his breeches without
moving. He chuckled, and Sam opened his eyes again. "Mr. Frodo?" he asked,
as his arms tensed as if he wanted to lift his hands and had only just
remembered in time; Frodo smiled at him, and then grinned. "I have to get
up," he told Sam, shaking his head at himself. "Dratted breeches." Sam
smiled at that, and Frodo made up for it by sliding off Sam slowly enough
to make him groan, and leaning up to kiss Sam as he wriggled and pried at
the breeches till they _finally_ came off. 

Sam kissed him back, warm but still a little passive, a little
reticent; Frodo pushed into the kiss, wanting Sam to kindle with him, to
forget fear and propriety in favor of passion. Frodo's hands, free to roam
again, ruffled through the golden curls on Sam's chest, dancing over his
nipples to make him shake and arch; Frodo trailed his mouth down over
Sam's jaw and throat, tasting and nipping the sweet-salty skin there, as
he stroked his hands lower, over Sam's rounded belly. Sam was moaning
ceaselessly now, low in his throat but audible all the same; encouraged,
Frodo licked up beneath Sam's ear as he stroked Sam's legs with his
foot-curls, tracing Sam's ear with his tongue as he gently nudged those
sturdy legs apart. "Do you like this, Sam?" Frodo whispered in his ear,
licking it between words, as his hands slid over soft skin encasing firm,
generous muscle. "Do you like my hands on you?"

"Mr. Frodo," Sam gasped, "Mr. Frodo, need you ask?" Frodo smiled against
his cheek, sliding his face over Sam's, and Sam turned his head to meet
him, and they kissed again as Frodo got both hands round his prick. Sam
jumped delightfully at that, the shock of pleasure vibrating through his
whole body, even his lips and tongue trembling against Frodo's, and Frodo
hummed approvingly and stroked, hoping to rouse Sam even further, noting
with pride that Sam's arms were still over his head.

The angle was a bit awkward, though, so Frodo pulled his head up; Sam
craned his neck to follow the kiss, and Frodo chuckled even as their
mouths disengaged. "Mmm, Sam, you feel good in my hands," he murmured,
knowing that such words would bring the blood up to Sam's cheeks, and that
they'd also make him twitch in Frodo's hands. Frodo kissed Sam's eyelids,
kissed those blushing cheeks, then got up on his knees to lean over his
Sam.

When he'd thought of shifting, it was just to better use his hands, but as
Frodo leaned over, sliding his chest over Sam's belly and planting his
hands astride Sam's hips, he realized two things: one, that he simply
_had_ to get his lips round the cock before him, as flushed and
delicious-looking as Sam's cheeks and lips; and, the other, that in
rousing Sam he'd roused himself more than he'd even realized. Sam's curls
against his chest tingled like threads of fire, hardening his nipples till
they felt almost fragile; Frodo shuddered himself, and leaned further, and
Sam felt him shudder and drew a deep gasping breath, which made the skin
of his side brush Frodo's prick almost as achingly wonderfully as fingers
might. Frodo bit his lip, lest he melt over Sam, and leaned forward to his
goal.

And oh, as ever, the salt and musk and sweetness of him, the throbbing
heat. Sam's moan spilled up into a cry, and Frodo felt a flash of triumph
as he pushed the ring of his lips down around him, resting on his belly to
free a hand. Sam gasped, and moaned again; Frodo glanced up and saw his
toes curling, and couldn't suppress a giggle, which vibrated through Sam,
setting off more trembling, more moans. "Mister----" Sam began, but Frodo
twisted his hand and his tongue, and the words were swamped in another
moan.

Frodo leaned more of his weight on Sam's heaving chest and belly, resting
on Sam's strength as he brought the other hand up beneath and Sam arched
so that he nearly bucked Frodo off, truly lost now, all and entire in
Frodo's hands. Frodo hung on with his elbows and kept at it, listening to
Sam's hard-won sobs of pleasure, thinking of how that beautiful mouth must
look parted to release those cries, how that strong throat must look as
Sam arched and drove his head back into the pillow. The thoughts and the
taste and the feel and the moans coursed through Frodo, rousing him till
his blood caught fire in all his veins. _Oh, my Sam,_ he thought, as he
drew his mouth slowly up and off, and Sam gave a little keen of
disappointment and sagged back down into the bed. 

Frodo got his knees beneath himself and sat up, taking a deep breath,
trailing his fingers over Sam's belly; then he twisted to lay himself
against Sam's side again, noting the pulse pounding at his throat. "Sam,
my dear, how are you?"

Sam twitched all over and gasped and laughed, prying his eyes open. "Oh,
Mr. Frodo," he said, the look in those eyes warming Frodo further yet,
"I've got my hands bound and my prick wet, and you ask me how I be. You do
talk and talk, me dear."

Frodo laughed and leaned over Sam to kiss him. "Would you like to have me,
Sam?"

"Sir?" Sam's gaze flicked up at his hands, and his expression
clouded. "Sir, I'd not---"

"Shhh." Frodo kissed him again, laying a hand to his cheek. "We can do
this, Sam," he murmured. "With your hands still bound, if you like." Frodo
gave his best mischievous smile, and Sam laughed and tilted his chin up
for another kiss. Frodo pressed the kiss deep, twining his tongue round
Sam's for a long moment before he sat up again, drawing his hand down
Sam's chest. "Stay here," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, and
grinned when Sam laughed at that and closed his eyes.

More rummaging---Frodo made a mental note to clean out his nightstand
sometime---and he had the jar. He swung a leg over Sam again and leaned
down to kiss him, and oh the taste of that full sweet mouth. Frodo almost
wished he were taller, so he wouldn't have to pull away from the kiss, as
Sam moaned into it, pushing his hips up against Frodo's backside, but then
Sam's thrusting reminded him of what he wanted for them. So Frodo pushed
himself back, looking up at Sam's flushed face and kiss-bruised lips and
deep beautiful eyes, and dragged his arse slowly up and over Sam's cock as
Sam's moaning mouth quivered and his eyes rolled back, and settled on
Sam's thighs, feeling their solidity beneath him, all that checked
strength. 

How Frodo wanted to feel that strength. He wanted Sam over him, clutching
him, pounding him; he wanted Sam embracing him, cradling him, clenching
round him. And he wanted Sam moaning and trembling and lost in pleasure
with him, and he intended to have him so. Frodo scooped out a handful of
salve, absently noting that he'd soon have to fetch a new jar to his room,
and rubbed it between his hands before he wrapped those hands round Sam's
cock, and Sam's sigh shaded into a growl. "Ready, Sam?" Frodo asked,
getting up on his hands and knees, shifting forward. Sam nodded, mouth
working but no words emerging, and Frodo rocked forward, leaned on one
hand while he reached back with the other, and breathed deeply and pushed
back.

Perhaps he'd fibbed just a bit. It _did_ hurt, it had to hurt, taken so
suddenly, but it would ease, given a moment, and all the pain in the world
was worth the look on Sam's face as his eyelids sank over his
pleasure-blanked eyes and his lips trembled and fell further apart. Just
that look jolted Frodo's own desire back up to fever pitch; he eased back
a bit more and Sam's hips twitched towards him, Sam's arms trembled with
wanting to rise. "Sam," Frodo heard himself moan, and Sam replied with a
wordless moan of his own. "Sam," Frodo wailed, as he arched his back and
pushed himself down, impaling himself on Sam, stretch and burn and heat
and pleasure. "Oh," Sam whimpered, and "Sir," and something that might
have been "Mr. Frodo" perhaps. Frodo felt them slap flush, and willed his
knees to not melt like wax in the heat, as he pushed up, and down again,
and oh the feel of Sam within him. Sam arched beneath Frodo just as Frodo
sank down, driving them harder together, and Frodo felt it crackle all the
way up his whiplashing spine, felt his own eyes snap shut, felt rather
than heard himself cry out.

"Oh," Frodo gasped, falling forward; he clutched the scarf round Sam's
wrists with one hand, locking his elbow to keep himself
upright. "Sam." Sam's eyes opened, and Frodo found himself the one caught
helplessly by beautiful eyes. "Mine." Frodo heard himself gasp, and Sam
nodded, eyes wide and dark, and Frodo leaned both his hands on Sam's
hands, on his strength, and pushed up and back down. "My Sam," he heard
himself saying, and some tiny part not molten and aflame wondered at the
possessiveness threading through the love. But then wasn't he Sam's every
bit as much as Sam was his? "My Sam," Frodo sang, clutching the scarf
binding Sam's wrists, held by his gaze. "Sam, my Sam, my Sam!" Sam shaped
a 'yes' with trembling lips, even as his eyes rolled shut, even as the
tremors going through him gathered into one arching spasm and he peaked,
shaking so that Frodo's hands slipped and he fell onto Sam's heaving
chest. "Sam," Frodo whimpered, getting one hand beneath him on the bed,
the other round himself. With Sam's peak resonating through him, even as
Sam gasped beneath him, it hardly took half a dozen strokes before Frodo
pressed his eyes shut as the fire in his blood overflowed his body and
surged across his vision, and he sank down onto Sam's chest as he trembled
through his own peak.

They lay like that for some time, Frodo draped bonelessly over Sam's body,
Sam's heart pounding in Frodo's ear, until Frodo, in his sated drifting,
fetched up hard against the thought that he must be heavy atop Sam and his
poor hands should be untied! Frodo raised his head, and Sam opened his
eyes and smiled warmly. "May I move my hands, Sir?" he asked, and Frodo
felt a stab of remorse. Gasping, "Sam, yes! Oh, I'm sorry!" Frodo reached
up and undid the scarf, which was slippery silk and now blotched with
salve and so fought his shaking fingers. When he had it off he drew Sam's
arms down, rubbing his wrists, kissing his hands and pressing them
together over his heart, and hastily swiped at them both with the
scarf. "Sam. My wonderful strong Sam. How are you?"

Sam chuckled again at the question. "Just fine, me dear. How else might I
be?" His freed arms came up around Frodo's back, hands pressing warmly
into the flesh as he pulled Frodo down for a kiss. "Just fine."

"Good." Frodo curled himself up a bit, stroking Sam's cheek. "And in the
morning, you can tie me up if you like." Sam stared, and then laughed
heartily, squeezing his eyes shut, his whole frame shaking. "Oh, no,
Mr. Frodo, no, sir, I..." Sam trailed off into helpless giggles and Frodo
joined him, sliding off to lie beside him. The cracked rib twinged, and
Frodo winced slightly; even through his laughter Sam noticed and sobered
instantly. "Sir," he scolded "ought we to have---"

"_Sam_," Frodo replied, laying his fingers over Sam's lips. Sam looked at
him reprovingly as he kissed those fingers and laid his head down on the
pillow again. "You should rest, Mr. Frodo," he said, pulling Frodo closer
with one solid arm, and Frodo rolled his eyes, and smiled, and rested his
head on Sam's strong shoulder and closed his eyes.